


Pinioned

by SophiaOfTheSevenStorms



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, ignores canon post episode 102 or so, slight gore, tmabigbang2018, wingfic AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 22:23:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16146788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaOfTheSevenStorms/pseuds/SophiaOfTheSevenStorms
Summary: Elias had threatened before to clip his wings. Jon had thought he was being metaphorical.Written for the 2018 TMA Big Bang Challenge.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is still ongoing, probably another two, maybe three chapters to go, which I'll post as soon as I can. Sorry for that, a hectic summer of travelling and a work/life balance skewed almost entirely in the "work" direction meant I severely underestimated how much time I'd need to finish this fic.
> 
> I started writing this way back in the early days of season three so if any characterisation seems off, blame it on that. I've more or less taken canon into account up until after episode 101/102, but then just ignored everything after that. 
> 
> Thanks to my treater, Mirthfulmalady, my beta, Nonnie, and also to Flammenkobold for doing so much work arranging all this and encouraging me to go for it.

“So, uh…” Jon glances down at his glass before dragging his eyes back up to meet Martin’s.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”

“Of course! I-I mean, it’s no problem…” Martin takes a sip of his beer, mostly to break the eye contact. Even now, when so much has changed between them, he still can’t meet Jon’s eyes for too long without blushing. He hopes it isn’t obvious.

“What did you want to talk about?”

Now it is Jon’s turn to look nervous. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His fingers tap against his glass in a staccato rhythm until, glancing down, he stills them. “I wanted to… apologise,” he sighs. The pub is pretty crowded at this time of evening, even for a work night, but their table is in a secluded corner and Martin can hear the slight tremor in his voice as he speaks.

“For… everything, recently. I know I wasn’t very open about what’s been going on and I wasn’t there for any of you when you needed me to be; for you in particular, Martin. I should have realised Elias had you reading statements…”

Martin wants to tell him it’s okay, he doesn’t need to say sorry, that whatever hurt was done he’s already forgiven, but he stops himself. Jon clearly needs to say this. If he’s completely honest with himself, Martin needs to hear it too.

“I thought keeping my distance would keep you safe, but it just ended up getting you hurt instead, and in a way I could have prevented if I’d paid more attention to what was going on. I’m sorry. I can’t change what’s happened already but I’m trying to do better from now on. I just hope that’ll be enough.” Jon lets out a shuddering breath, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. The air in the pub is still but the feathers of his wings are trembling almost imperceptibly.

“It was…” Jon’s grey eyes are staring into his but Martin forces himself to keep going.

“It was tough, I’m not going to lie. And I’m not going to pretend an apology wasn’t needed, because it was. So… thank you for that.” Martin forces a smile onto his face. “But for what it’s worth, I understand. I know you were only trying to keep us safe. And... you were going through a lot yourself at the time….”

He glances down, despite himself, at Jon’s right hand, loosely curled around his pint of bitter. The burns are far less vivid than the first time he saw them; they’ve faded now to a pattern of thin white and thicker pink scars but he still feels the same flash of anger and sympathy whenever he looks at them. The thought that anyone could have done that to him… He drags his eyes away before Jon can notice the direction of his thoughts. Not that he imagines Jon would be much more pleased with the other worry that’s been weighing on his mind… “Do they hurt as much for you, too? The statements, I mean.”

For a moment Jon looks at him with such intensity that Martin can feel his feathers stand on end. Then he signs and rubs at his face with his unburnt hand. “What did I ever do to deserve you…” Jon is smiling and the look on his face sends a flash of heat up Martin’s spine and through his skin. “I’ve been… such an ass, especially to you, but you never stop being concerned about me.” For a moment, Jon looks like he wants to say more but then he swallows it down with a gulp of his beer.

“...And, honestly, I don’t really know,” He sounds so tired, suddenly. “I don’t think so? I can’t really describe what they feel like. There’s pain, sometimes, and fear, and grief and all kinds of emotions, but I don’t ever _really_ feel them, you know? It’s more like they’re just passing through me without actually being mine.” Jon shrugs and Martin tries not to stare at the way the movement makes his wings catch the light.

“I think the Beholding gives me some kind of protection against the statements that it doesn’t extent to anyone else who tries to read them. That’s why they affect you worse than me.” Martin knows he should find that reassuring but he doesn’t, somehow. It’s just another reminder of how different Jon is from them all now, how much being the Archivist has set him apart from other people.

Then a burly man staggers past their table, spilling the best part of a half pint of beer all over Jon’s jacket and the startled, indignant look that breaks across Jon’s face is so human, so typically _Jon_ that Martin can’t help but burst out laughing, all fears about Jon’s shifting humanity gone from his mind.

* * *

 The day had been unseasonably warm but the night is cool, verging on cold by the time they leave the pub. Martin walks with his shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets, regretting that he hadn’t thought to wear a sturdier jacket that morning. Next to him Jon looks just as uncomfortable, his wings curled around himself like a cloak.

“You really don’t have to walk me to the tube station, Martin, I know it’s out of your way,” Jon says, but there is a softness to his voice that makes Martin think that yes, he really does, if only so he can be alone with him for a few minutes more. The night had gone well after the initial awkwardness- they’d naturally segued into less fraught topics of conversation and Martin had been pleasantly surprised at just how easy it was to talk to Jon and just how much fun he was having. The seven pints of bitter they’d put away between them had doubtless helped with that and Martin knows he’s quite a bit more tipsy than he should be on a work night. From the smile on his face and the careful way he’s walking Martin suspects Jon is too.

“It’s fine, really!” He says. “It’s not that far from my house, and I don’t mind.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” Jon looks like he is about to say something else for a moment before he nods, smiling. Is Martin imagining it, or has Jon moved closer to him? “That would be nice, thank you, Martin.”

They turn off the main road, cutting through a residential crescent that’ll shave a few minutes off the walk. The street is quiet, lined by tall poplar trees overlooked by taller terraced houses. The light from the streetlamps is a warm, creamy white, a welcome contrast to the harsh, sodium orange they had just left. The pavement is narrower here and Martin finds himself, completely accidentally, walking closer to Jon with every step.

One of the paving stones is slightly loose, one corner jutting up into the air. Martin notices it and adjusts his step but Jon, it seems, is not so observant. Jon’s foot catches the edge of the stone and he trips, falling towards Martin. He grips Martin’s shoulder at the same that Martin brings a hand up to steady him. His hand misses Jon’s shoulder entirely and ends up brushing against his wing, fingers sliding through the soft, grey feathers. Jon shivers and gasps, loud against the stillness of the night, and there is something in that sound that sends sparks of lust crackling through Martin’s body. His hand feels as if it is burning.

He should pull away, he knows he should. This was already highly inappropriate; he should just let Jon regain his balance and then move away. He should apologise, too, and hope Jon doesn’t yell at him the moment he recovers from the shock. But he can’t bring himself to move. Jon doesn’t move either, just stays there, motionless, fingers digging into Martin’s shoulder, head bent towards his chest. Jon’s breath is warm against his neck, his hair almost brushing Martin’s cheek and Martin can’t take it anymore.

He spreads his palm flat and glides it down the length of Jon’s wing. He keeps his touch light, delicate, his hand barely touching the feathers, expecting any moment for Jon to yell at him and push him away. But instead Jon shudders, a high, desperate sound escaping his lips, his fingers tightening around the fabric of Martin’s jacket. Martin’s hand trembles and he tries to keep his movements as slow and light as possible, as if Jon were a wild animal that could bolt at the slightest threat. But Jon just moves even closer, tilting his head up so that he is gazing into Martin’s eyes. Martin finds his hand drifting from Jon’s wing to his face, cupping his jaw, his thumb resting close to Jon’s lips. Jon’s pulse is leaping against his fingertips and his cheeks are flushed. He shivers and the movement makes his feathers rustle like leaves in a summer wind. Martin doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone so impossibly beautiful, and for a second he is frozen, struck senseless with it all, trapped in a moment he hadn’t even dared to imagine could ever be real.

But it is real. And he knows it’s now or never.

“Can I kiss you?”

Jon hesitates and it’s as if a shard of ice has ripped through Martin’s guts. But then he nods, his eyes closing as Martin leans down and kisses him. The moment is as perfect as he could ever have imagined. He keeps things light at first, barely brushing Jon’s lips with his own until Jon draws him closer, his lips parting slightly. Martin’s fingers curl through Jon’s hair, tightening slightly, and he delights at the way Jon’s moan vibrates through him. Jon’s wings brush against Martin’s wrists, sending shocks of pleasure skittering across his skin. Jon pulls away after a few seconds but he keeps his grip on Martin’s shoulder, his other hand pressed against Martin’s chest, grounding rather than pushing away. Martin just watches him, waiting for him to catch his breath.

“Are you okay?”

Jon looks up, a smile on his face. “I’m fine. More than fine. That was…” He laughs, a soft, breathless sound. “That was amazing, actually.” He pauses, looking down. “But can we… can we keep it at that, for tonight?” He looks up again, eyes wide. A slight tremor rushes through his wings that has nothing to do with the wind. “It’s not that I don’t want to do more, I do, just… not tonight, if that’s okay?”

“Of course!” This was already more than Martin could have possibly hoped for. He wanted more, of course, but he would never push for it, or do anything to make Jon uncomfortable. “We can do as much as you want, or as little,” He reaches for Jon’s hand, squeezing it in his own. He feels a little lightheaded, still not quite able to believe what had happened. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want, not now… or, or ever, really… I- I mean, I want to, of course, but not if you don’t-”

Jon pulls him into a hug, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Martin, you’re babbling,” Jon leans his forehead against Martin’s chest and Martin doesn’t think he can breathe, let alone say anything more. “But… thank you. That means… it means a lot.”

Jon reaches up, pulling Martin’s head down to kiss his cheek before stepping away, standing at Martin’s left shoulder. Almost without thinking, Martin tries to take his hand but Jon pulls back, darting around him to stand at his other side. Jon holds out his left hand and Martin takes it, confused for a moment before remembering. He wants to say something, to draw Jon close again and assure him that he is beautiful, he is the most beautiful person Martin has ever met and no amount of scars could ever change that but then Jon squeezes his hand, pulling them on through the street at a brisk pace.

“Come on, then, or we’ll never get home at this rate.”

He looks at his watch, turning back to Martin with a grin on his face. Martin blinked. He isn’t sure he’s ever seen that expression on Jon’s face before, but he knows he wants to see more of it.

“You know what?” Jon says. “It’s gone one am. We don’t need to walk to the tube.”

He takes a few steps away from Martin, spreading his wings to their full length and Martin has to bite back a gasp. His grey feathers are edged with iridescent silver and the light of the streetlamps plays over them like moonlight on the sea. With a single, fluid movement, Jon is in the air, clearing the tops of the poplar trees with a few wingbeats.

“Are you coming?”

Martin doesn’t follow for a moment, just stays there, transfixed at the sight before him. All of Jon’s usual awkwardness and fatigue is gone, replaced by an easy, stunning grace that leaves Martin’s mouth dry and his heart fluttering. Martin spreads his wings, his eyes never leaving Jon as he leaps into the air.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where were you yesterday, Jon?"

Elias’ voice rings out from the doorway, loud in the cramped space and Jon starts, almost spilling his tea. It has long since gone cold anyway; Martin had made it for him over an hour ago now before heading home. Jon wishes now that he’d decided to go with him. He forces himself to meet Elias’ gaze, unable to keep the guilt off his face, no matter how much he tells himself he has nothing to feel guilty about. Elias is leaning against the side of Jon’s office door. His sleek black wings are tucked neatly behind his back; his eyes are as cold as Jon’s ever seen them and there’s something in his expression that sets Jon’s heart racing and his guts twisting into knots.

“You know where I was,” It’s a struggle to keep his voice even, to act as if Elias doesn’t terrify him like this. They both know it’s an act so he almost doesn’t know why he bothers but he can’t give in that easily. He has to try to stand up for himself, even if it’s ultimately pointless.

“Of course I do, Jon. I always know where you are. But I want to hear you say it.”

Elias strides into Jon’s office as he speaks. He’s holding something in one of his hands, Jon realises, something he’d kept out of sight when standing in the doorway, but he moves too quickly for Jon to catch what it is before Elias is standing over his desk, staring down at him, the object hidden on the other side of his desk. Elias’ wings are outstretched now, not to their full length but enough to cloak Jon in shadow.

“So. I’ll ask you again. Where were you yesterday?”

“I… I was with Martin.” He’s not ashamed but he finds himself blushing anyway, his eyes falling down to the desk against his better judgement. His feathers are trembling. With his wings tucked safely behind his back he can try to fool himself that Elias hasn’t noticed. He can’t afford to act cowed around this monster. Elias needs him alive, needs him to stop the Unknowing and who knows what else. He isn’t going to harm him.

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Not my business?” Elias’ mouth twists. He speaks very softly. “You deliberately disobeyed me on multiple counts. I have told you several times now about the importance of maintaining distance from your assistants, and have specifically forbidden you from developing the kind of… attachment you have clearly developed towards Martin. Were it up to me I would have him disposed of as soon as possible-”

“No!” Jon’s wings are raised and he’s halfway to leaping out of his chair before a glare from Elias pins him in place and he sinks back into his chair.

“As I was saying, were it up to me I would have him disposed of but, luckily for the both of you, that is not what our Master wants. Martin has a role to play in all of this still… but this disobedience cannot be ignored, Jon.”

Elias lifts the object he was holding, setting it down on the desk with a heavy thud. A pair of shears, almost as long as Jon’s forearm, sharp and gleaming in the low light.

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but you seem to have left me little choice.”

Jon looks down at the shears and then up into Elias’ eyes. Fear curls through his gut like the limbs of some unnatural creature. Elias had threatened before to clip his wings. Jon had thought he was being metaphorical.

“You can’t be serious.” Elias can’t mean what he thinks he means, surely… it has to be an empty threat. Elias has put up with far greater insubordination from him with barely a word of complaint, surely something like this couldn’t be taken so seriously? But the image of Leitner’s body dances through Jon’s mind, the old man slumped in his desk chair, skull shattered and dark blood drying on what was once his face. Elias is not the type to make empty threats. And a lot can be done to a person without killing them outright.

“Quite,” Elias’ smile is like cold fire. “Now, Jon, there’s no reason to make this any more painful than this needs to be. I want you to kneel on the floor in the centre of the room, right now.”

He stares down at Jon, still smiling and something in Jon is screaming for him to obey but he pushes it down and sits, unmoving, in his chair. He can’t just let this happen. He has to fight it, somehow. He grasps for the Archivist’s cold detachment, praying that something in his inhuman side can help save him from the will of the master who made him that way.

“ _Why are you doing this?_ ”

There’s a soft click and a crackle of static in the background but he can’t afford to care about that now. Jon throws every scrap of his power behind the question; it’s little more than a distraction even if it somehow actually works, he knows that, but he has to try something. Elias stands between him and the only door in the room, but if he can get him talking for long enough…

Elias’ eyes widen for a second and he shivers before he slaps Jon hard enough to knock his teeth together. He grabs Jon by the hair before he has a chance to get his bearings, dragging him out of his chair and throwing him on the ground. His knees hit the floor, hard. Jon raises his wings on instinct as he falls, feathers crumpling against the floorboards. The wood is dusty and rough and his skin crawls at the feeling of dirt on his wings. He tries to get to his feet, whether to fight or to run he doesn’t know, but a hand lands on his shoulder, fingers digging into his skin, and he finds he is unable to move.

“I suggest, for your sake, that you don’t try anything like that again, Jon.” Elias takes his hand off Jon’s shoulder and Jon watches as he removes his suit jacket, folding it in slow, deliberate movements before placing it on the back of Jon’s desk chair. Jon stares up at him as he carefully rolls up his shirt sleeves. “This is going to happen, whatever you might think. Fighting me will only make it worse.”

He knows Elias is right. He could still try and escape, rush for the door and hope Elias doesn’t catch him before he can reach it. But he can’t, he knows that, and not just because Elias is certainly stronger and faster than him. It’s strange-when he had been kidnapped by Nikola he had been afraid, terrified often, but he had never hesitated to fight back as much as he could, to argue and antagonise as much as was possible with his mouth constantly gagged. But now, with Elias, such things seem impossible. Something within him wants to obey, can’t contemplate disobeying Elias, no matter how awful the consequences.

“Good. Now you understand.”

Elias picks up the shears from the desk and crouches down in front of him, staring into his eyes. He runs a thumb across Jon’s cheek, brushing away a tear he hadn’t realised he was shedding. When he speaks again his voice is softer, almost kind.

“You should remove your shirt if you want to keep it. Bloodstains are really quite tricky to get out.”

Jon hurries to obey, fingers numb as he struggles with the buttons while Elias stands up and walks around him, kneeling down behind him. He helps Jon remove his shirt and throws it to the corner of the room. Elias runs his hands down the length of Jon’s wings, his fingers combing through the feathers, his touch as gentle as a lover’s, as gentle as Martin had been only the night before. Jon gasps and shudders, an icy wave of nausea washing over him.

“You have such beautiful wings, Jon,” Elias murmurs. “It really is a shame.”

“Please, Elias,” Tears fall onto his clenched fists as he screws his eyes shut. He is trembling violently now, his feathers shaking against Elias’ hands. “Please don’t do this.”

Elias just sighs. His hand tightens its grasp on Jon’s left wing, pulling it slightly away from his body and the nausea intensifies. His other hand slides down the wing, following the bones down to the final joint, just above Jon’s primary flight feathers. He is not holding the shears and Jon is momentarily confused- surely he needs them to clip his feathers? Then Elias’ grip tightens again and he jerks his hand upwards, his other hand holding the rest of Jon’s wing firmly in place. The sound of Jon’s bone snapping in two echoes through the room, drowned out almost instantly by his screams.

Elias moves to his right wing, repeating the action in a swift, fluid movement and this time Jon cannot even draw breath enough to scream. Only then does Elias pick up the shears, slicing roughly away at the muscle and tendons around the broken bones as Jon gags and retches. When Elias grabs the long feathers at the bottom of his left wing and pulls, tearing the remaining strands of flesh until the entire lower half of his wing is pulled free and thrown away, Jon is sick all over himself. The acrid scent of vomit mingles with the coppery blood from his wings and he retches again, bile burning his throat.

A coldness seeps through him that has nothing to do with the chill in the basement office. He feels as if he is looking at himself from somewhere on the ceiling, watching as Elias rips his other wing in two, the now-useless lump of flesh and feathers joining its partner on the floor. Jon can see himself, white-faced and shaking, blood dripping from the remnants of his wings and pooling around his feet, can hear himself sob, barely enough breath left to truly scream. He is only moments away from hyperventilating, he thinks. He should probably try and avoid that.

A hand pulls at his hair, hard, and he is yanked back into himself. Elias grips his jaw in blood-slick hands, turning Jon’s head until he is staring him in the eyes.

“None of that, now, Jon.” He is speaking so calmly. His hands are soaked to the wrists in Jon’s blood, his trousers are drenched in it and he is speaking _so calmly_. “I need you to stay with me for this. This is a punishment and you need to experience it fully, do you understand?”

He nods.

“Good boy,” Elias murmurs. He produces a handkerchief from a pocket and wipes the vomit from Jon’s mouth and chin, although he does nothing to clean the blood now smeared across Jon’s face from his own hands. “We’re almost done now, the worst is over. Just a little more to go.”

“Please…” He sobs. Elias rubs his back, between his mutilated wings, as he gasps for breath. “Please stop. I’ll… I’ll be good, I promise. Please, Elias.”

Elias sighs. “Even if I believed you, Jon, that doesn’t change the fact that this has to happen. I’ve given you far too much freedom lately, and you have taken advantage of that. I warned you multiple times that this kind of behaviour was unacceptable,” He lets go of Jon’s face and runs a hand through the remains of his wings, smearing blood across the feathers while Jon struggles not to throw up again. “So now you have forced me to resort to this.”

The shears scrape softly over the floor as Elias picks them up again. Jon is trembling so violently he fears he’ll collapse until Elias rests a hand on his shoulder. “Hold still now. This will be over soon.”

He starts at the end of Jon’s wings, just above the still-bleeding wounds, cutting the feathers in slow, deliberate movements. A broken, desolate keening fills the air and it takes Jon a while to realise it is coming from his own mouth. Tears are falling steadily down his face now and he tastes copper and salt against his tongue. The shears cut faster as Elias moves further up Jon’s wings, slicing roughly through the feathers until the air around them is a snowstorm of silver. They brush past his tear stained cheeks and cling to the blood painting his skin. He is sobbing so hard he can barely breathe. Elias’ hand comes to rest on his shoulder again, at the junction of his neck, cold fingers curling loosely around the base of his throat. There is darkness at the edges of his vision now. The Archive lights shimmer and pulse around him and his eyes fall closed despite his determination to keep them open. He falls forward, barely feeling Elias’ hands tighten against his skin as everything around him goes black.

 

When he wakes it is to the slow brush of a damp cloth against his wings. A bucket sits to the side of him, filled with pale pink water. How long had he been unconscious? There is pressure at the ends of his wings, right over his wounds, but the worst of the pain is gone. The vomit on his chest is gone too, although he suspects that was done more for Elias’ comfort than his own. The cloth is cold against his exposed skin and he shivers.

“Ah, you’re awake. At last.” Elias’ voice is calm, empty of all emotion.

Jon doesn’t reply, couldn’t, even if he wanted to. What is there to say? Elias has destroyed his life completely. He will never be able to fly again, never be able to walk down a street without leaving a trail of shocked and pitying eyes, never feel at home in his own skin ever again. Everyone will be repulsed by him, whether they meant to or not. _Martin_ will be repulsed by him. Elias has taken everything from him in a few moments of breathtaking violence and he doesn’t even have the decency to feel anything about it.

“This is for your own good, Jon,” Elias murmurs, as if reading his thoughts. He probably had. He presses a kiss between Jon’s trembling shoulder blades, where his wings meet his skin and Jon can’t even bring himself to feel the fear or disgust he knows the action should elicit in him. “One day you might even thank me.”

He stares at the ground, unmoving, as Elias continues to clean what remains of his wings. His blood has seeped into the floorboards, running in tiny streams through the grain of the wood. They branch out, splitting into hair-thin tributaries, branching again until they disappear completely. _Fractal_. He wonders if Elias would arrange to have it washed out, the way he had after Leitner’s murder, or if he would let the stain stay forever, a reminder of the price of disobedience. It would hardly be necessary, he thinks. Just one look at him would be reminder enough for anyone.

Eventually Elias stops his cleaning. He drops the cloth in the bucket of water, now a noticeably darker shade of pink than before. He has not bothered to clean Jon’s face. The drying blood and tear tracks itch but still, he is grateful. He doesn’t think he could look Elias in the eyes without breaking completely.

He thinks Elias might be talking to him but all he can hear is a faint, muffled hum, like listening to someone speak through a thick pane of glass. He should probably be concerned that Elias is trying to attract his attention, but he can’t bring himself to care. He just wants Elias to go away, for everything to go away. He thinks at some point Elias leaves but still he doesn’t try to move. He doesn’t think he can, no matter how much discomfort he is in. The building around him echoes and creaks as if in sympathy with his own aching, mutilated body. He closes his eyes and lets the sounds of the Archives lull him into fitful sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_Wake up._

Martin blinks and reaches for his phone, almost knocking it off the nightstand in his clumsy, half-sleeping state. The screen reads 5:18, a full two hours before he normally wakes. He’s not really surprised, he’d slept poorly all night, freefalling from one nightmare to the next. He’d half-woken several times before, convinced he could hear screams echoing through the street below, or a voice calling his name. 

_Get up. Get up!_

Adrenaline jolts him upright, his hand scrambling for the bedside light. This time he really isn’t imagining it. There is no ghostly voice, no words echoing in his head, but he is filled with an overwhelming certainty of what he must do, and where he must go. 

He dresses in a hurry, doing his best to ignore the cold and the nagging irritation at having left his bed unmade. Whatever it is that he is being urged along to, it is far more important than that. He barely looks at what he’s putting on, dressing for warmth and convenience with no consideration of appearances. His wings are a mess from the restless night of tossing and turning, rust-coloured feathers pointing in all directions, but he can’t spare them more than a few cursory comb-throughs with his fingers. Impatience bubbles through his blood, edged with a growing anxiety until he is practically running out of his front door, only barely remembering to lock it before rushing down the stairs. 

He arrives at the tube station just in time for the first train of the morning. Victoria is only three stops away but each station seems to slide by painfully slowly. The walk to the Institute is even worse- normally he cherished the ten minute stroll through one of London’s prettiest districts but now he can barely keep himself from flying, despite the daytime prohibition, the feeling of overwhelming impatience made even worse by the fact that he had no idea why he was in such a hurry. 

The main doors of the Institute are still locked when he arrives, of course, but as Archive staff he has twenty-four hour access to the basement entrance round the back, a fact that had never made sense to him until recently. Once he’s in the assistants’ office he pauses for breath, hanging his coat on the back of his desk chair. Dull daylight is just beginning to creep into the room from the tiny windows near the ceiling so he doesn’t bother with the main lights, just switches on his desk lamp before looking around. Everything seems fine, there are no worms crawling up the walls or knife-handed strangers lurking in corners. But then he notices the thin line of light under the door to Jon’s office. 

It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, he tells himself as he approaches the office. Jon is a notorious workaholic, he could have just decided to come in early to work, or fallen asleep at his desk the night before. He’d done that plenty of times in the past. Martin will wake him up, gently scold him for not going home and then Jon can get some proper rest on the Archive camp bed before the work day begins. Everything will be fine. It’s a lie, he knows- whatever has happened on the other side of that door is certainly the reason he was summoned here- but he repeats it to himself over and over until he can bring himself to open the door. 

… For a moment all Martin can do is stand there. By some miracle he is able to keep from falling to the floor and screaming. Jon is kneeling in the centre of the room, shirtless and shivering. He is not moving. His face is streaked with blood and his wings… his wings are completely destroyed. His feathers are all gone; the cut ends of his quills stick out at odd angles like hundreds of thick, hollowed needles, dark against the too-pale skin of his wings. At least, what remains of them. The lower half of each wing is missing, replaced with bandaged stumps. Blood has soaked through the bandages on the left stump and is dripping sluggishly onto the floor where fragments of silver feathers lie like a coating of ash. 

_“Jon…!”_

His voice is weak with shock and the beginnings of tears but Martin knows Jon should have heard it. If he has, he gives no indication. He has given no indication he’s noticed Martin’s presence at all since he opened the door. He just kneels there, unmoving, barely blinking, staring at the wall and Martin can’t bear it for a second longer. He takes a step into the room, stomach turning as the stale stench of old blood and early decay envelops him. The office floor is tacky with drying blood underneath the thin carpet of feathers; it clings to the soles of Martin’s shoes as he makes his way across the room. Something snaps under his foot and he looks down. It takes him a while to realise what he is looking at and when he does he barely makes it to the bin by the desk before being violently sick. 

The lower half of one of Jon’s wings is lying on the floor, silvery feathers matted with dark blood. Strings of flesh trail out of the wound’s edge, surrounding the roughly broken bone. It only takes him a few seconds to notice the other wing, crumpled against the far wall as if thrown there. This was no quick, clean amputation. The wounds are deliberately ugly, the cuts messy and designed to leave behind awkward, obvious stumps that would never heal right. Whoever had done this had not just wanted to hurt but to humiliate. 

Martin wipes his eyes with his jumper sleeve and pushes his hair out of his face. He struggles to his feet; he tastes bile in his throat as he swallows back tears and tries to force himself back into something resembling calm. He has to keep hold of himself. As much as he wants to scream and rage and cry for what has happened, he needs to stay calm for Jon. He can do this. He’d faced down Prentiss and her worms, found Gertrude’s body in the tunnels, found Leitner with his skull caved open in this very office. He can keep it together in a crisis, he knows he can. The fact that this is Jon shouldn’t matter at all. 

He falls to his knees before Jon and brings up a shaking hand up to touch his face. Jon is shivering and his skin is warm and clammy, as if in the height of a fever. His face is streaked with blood, some of it in marks that look somewhat like... fingerprints? Don’t think about it now, he reminds himself. There will be time enough for rage later.

“Jon? Can you hear me?” Jon makes no response, either to Martin’s words or his touch. His eyes are still staring straight ahead, red-rimmed and empty. “It’s me, Martin. I- I’m not going to let anything more happen to you, okay? You’re safe now.” 

Martin runs his eyes down Jon’s torso, searching for any other injuries. Thankfully he sees nothing but the old worm scars and burn marks. Jon’s left wing is still bleeding through the bandage so Martin shifts round to get a closer look, gently lifting the remains of Jon’s wing away from his back to examine it. As soon as Martin’s hand pulls at his wing, Jon screams. He flinches so violently Martin has to grab his shoulder to stop him from falling over. He struggles against that touch, too, quiet sobs racking his body. 

“I’m sorry I’m sorry _I’m sorry_ …” He is crying now too, breathless, his voice shaking. How could he have been so _stupid_? Martin blinks away the tears and pulls his hand away from Jon’s shoulder, holding his hands palm out in front of him.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I won’t touch your wings again, okay?” He is going to have to, sooner or later, he knows that. He needs to get Jon out of here somehow and he doubts he can walk on his own. 

It doesn’t take long to decide who to call. Elias is out of the question, of course, as is Daisy. Melanie and Basira seem trustworthy but they’d been with the Institute for hardly any time, only a few months, they barely knew Jon. Georgie was the ideal option but Martin doesn’t have her number and, besides, he knows Jon wouldn’t thank him for getting her involved in all of this. That just left… 

Tim picks up on the fourth ring, yawning as he answers.

“Martin _what the fuck_ , it’s not even seven in the morning… what’s the matter?” 

“It’s…” He takes a deep breath, willing himself to be steady. “It’s Jon.” He presses a hand to his mouth to stop the sob trying to escape it. 

“Oh god, what’s he done now?” Tim sighs.

“Don’t!” He hisses. “Don’t even joke about that Tim, not right now…” 

“Okay.” Tim’s voice is sharper now, all traces of levity or annoyance gone. “What’s happened?” 

“Jon was…” How can he say it? How can he even begin to put it into words? “He was attacked. I came into work early and I found him here. I don’t know who did it but it’s… it’s really bad.” He is not going to break down now. He is _not._

“Jesus, Martin. Fuck. I…” A pause. “Okay. Do we need to ring an ambulance?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Most of the bleeding has stopped. I think he’s in shock or something though… he’s awake but he’s not moving… he isn’t responding to anything I do...” 

“Okay, I’m on my way,” He can hear Tim moving through the phone, can hear the rustle of feathers and the clink of a belt buckle and, despite everything, Martin feels a brief moment of fondness. However much Tim hates the Archives, however much resentment he still harbours towards Jon, Martin knows he can count on him when it really mattered. “What do you need me to do? Do you need help moving him?” 

“No,” Martin sniffs, wiping his eyes. “I can manage, he’s pretty light,” Far lighter than he should be, and certainly much lighter now that half his wings cut off. _Later_ , he reminds himself. _Save the anger for later._ “But would you be able to come clean up the office? I don’t think it’s a good idea for anyone else to find out just yet and there’s… there’s a lot of blood…” 

“Of course. Anything you need.”

“Thanks, Tim.” 

Martin hangs up and calls a cab, working hard to keep his voice from shaking as he makes the call. He doesn’t know how the taxi driver will react to Jon, whether they’ll even be allowed in the car, but he doesn’t have any other options. If he keeps Jon covered up, perhaps he could just pass him off as sleeping or concussed or… something. 

“I’ll be right back, okay, Jon?” He looks into Jon’s eyes as he speaks, trying to convince himself that he sees some spark of recognition staring back at him. “I’m just going to get you something to wear.” 

He should have thought to do this much earlier, he realises with a pang of guilt. Jon is shivering and his lips are tinged blue, although whether that’s from the cold or the bloodloss, Martin can’t tell. He darts back into the main office and grabs his coat from the chair. He drapes it over Jon’s chest, avoiding his back and the remnants of his wings. His skin is so cold. 

Martin doesn’t know where to stand as he waits for the taxi. He wants to stay close to Jon but he can’t risk upsetting him any more than he already has. He shifts his feet; Jon’s blood is drying on the soles of his shoes. There is so much of it, wherever he looks. The floor near the desk is relatively clean so he makes his way over there, his eyes darting back to Jon with every movement. A tiny red light is flashing under a pile of papers- the tape recorder. Jon had said he needed to get a statement recorded last night. He picks it up and then pauses, feeling sick. He knows what will be on that tape. He knows he’ll have to hear it sooner or later, but not now. He can’t now.

Martin’s phone buzzes- the taxi has arrived and he still has no idea how he’s going to get Jon out of the basement. Pocketing the cassette from the tape recorder, he approaches Jon slowly, putting a hand on his shoulder, as far away from his wings as possible. Jon remains motionless and Martin is caught between disappointment and relief. He stays like that for a few moments, feeling the faint echo of Jon’s heartbeat through his skin, listening to his breathing. He’s more than strong enough to carry Jon, he knows that, but how can he do it without causing him any more distress? His phone rings again; the taxi driver’s getting impatient now. He has to go. 

A fireman’s lift is probably the easiest, so he crouches down and slings Jon over his shoulders, his head hanging down against Martin’s chest and his wings pointing into the air. Martin’s own wings unfurl to bracket Jon’s body, as if he could build a cocoon of feathers to shelter him against any further harm. Maneuvering through the narrow corridors and stairways of the Institute is awkward and when they finally emerge outside the driver looks far less than impressed. 

“I don’t have time to be sitting around here all da- hey, what’s wrong with him?” The driver gets out of the car and walks over, a mixture of suspicion, anger and concern painted across his face. “Shouldn’t he be in the hospital?” 

“He’s- he’s fine,” Martin can hear his voice shaking, but he can’t do anything to stop it. “He doesn’t need a hospital, please- we just need to get home.”

The man stares at him for a long moment, before nodding and gesturing to the cab. 

“Okay, it’s your call, and I’m sure it’s none of my business. Just don’t get any blood on the seats or you’re paying for it.” 

Martin gives him the address and they drive away, Jon stretched out on the back seats, his broken wings in the air, his head cradled in Martin’s lap. Martin strokes Jon’s hair as he watches him breathing, trying not to cry. He turns to the window when he can no longer bear the sight of Jon’s open eyes staring at nothing, and watches the sky brighten from the window of the taxi, the early morning sunlight playing over the pristine exteriors of Georgian townhouses and Chelsea rose gardens. Tears blur his vision and threaten to fall and he lets them, not wanting to let go of Jon for even the few seconds it would take to brush them away. Barely an hour has passed since he stumbled out of bed that morning but it already seems like a different life. 

The taxi pulls up in front of his house and he tips the driver triple what he normally would. Carrying Jon seems harder than it was before, and he is close to stumbling as he reaches the end of the two flights of stairs leading to his flat. He fumbles with his keys but finally they are inside, the door closed and locked behind them- not that many of the creatures that could have done this to Jon would be deterred by something as simple as a locked door. 

Martin sets Jon down on his bed, turning him onto his side. He drapes the duvet across Jon’s legs and chest, taking care to avoid his wings. Blood drips onto the duvet, spotting the white cotton red, but that’s- that’s fine, it’s not important now. All that matters is that Jon is safe. Like this, his face turned towards the pillow, Martin could almost trick himself into thinking that nothing was wrong, that Jon is just sleeping. The illusion lasts as long as he doesn’t let his eyes drift to Jon’s wings, to the blood staining his bedding, to the shivering pallor of Jon’s skin or the remnants of dried blood on his face. Martin sits there for a while, watching Jon as he had in the taxi. His hands tremble as he strokes Jon’s hair and there is a sickness in his stomach, growing deeper and deeper. The air around him seems to be too close, too warm, and the light seems to shimmer and dance.

“I’ll be back in just a second, okay?” Martin whispers. “I just need to- I just… I’ll be back, I promise.”

He leaves the room as quickly as he can without running and heads straight for the bathroom down the hall. The door slams behind him, more loudly than he meant it to. His whole body is trembling now; the air inside his lungs feels like it’s choking him. He grabs the largest towel from the towel rack and wads it up into a ball, pressing it against his mouth as he screams into it. Tears soak into the fabric as he draws breath and screams again and the once more, his voice breaking into a sob. Martin sinks back against the wall; his hand grips the towel rack, white-knuckled and shaking. He leans his head back against the wall, letting the towel drop to the floor as sobs wrack his body. His fingertips are tingling and his face feels numb. He forces himself to take a deep breath, then again, holding each breath and letting it out slowly until he trusts himself not to start screaming again. 

He’s only been gone a couple of minutes but the need to return to Jon is like a physical ache inside him. He might as well do something useful now he’s here, he supposes. He wipes his eyes and picks up a flannel, the softest one he has. He runs the tap until it’s lukewarm, soaks the cloth and wrings it out. Returning to the bedroom, Martin runs the cloth over Jon’s face, his movements as gentle as he can make them. The blood on Jon’s face is dry and clings stubbornly to his skin but Martin is patient and soon Jon is clean, or at least as clean as Martin can make him for the time being. His left wing has stopped bleeding too, at last, although Martin knows he’ll still have to change the bandages, eventually. 

Perhaps he was wrong to think Jon didn’t need a hospital… he’d been sure, back in the Archives, that bringing any attention to what had happened, particularly from the authorities, would make things worse for Jon, but what if he was making a mistake? What if Jon’s wounds got infected or he never woke from his catatonic state? And if he did wake, what would he be like after such a traumatic event? Even if his mental state was okay- and Martin can only have faith that it would be, Jon had already gone through so much and he was so strong, he would be fine, he had to be- how much pain would he be in while his wings healed? Oh god, what if he was in pain now and Martin had no way of knowing? All he has in the house was some paracetamol and a few low-dose codeine pills left over from when he had a toothache a few months back, there was no way that would be enough for Jon. What was he going to do? 

Jon’s hand is sticking out from the covers and Martin takes it in his own, running his thumb across its back, trying to steady the shaking in his limbs. His fingers loosely encircle Jon’s wrist, feeling the faint but steady beat of his pulse through his too-cold skin, a reminder that, no matter what else, he was still alive. Almost without meaning to, Martin finds himself humming an old lullaby, one he vaguely remembers his grandmother singing to him when he was a very young child. He can’t really remember the words, something about a young woman rescuing her true love from an evil queen or something like that but the tune is soft and comforting, cutting through the shroud of silence that had settled over the room, threatening to suffocate him with the clamour of his own panicked thoughts. He hopes that, somehow, somewhere in his mind, Jon can hear his humming and feels comforted by it too.


End file.
